


Nine-Point-Eight Straight Down

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Theology, stupid idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-14 10:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19271266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: “What was it like?” Aziraphale asked, apropos of everything and nothing, all at once.“...the wine?” Crowley asked, his head tilting further so the slightest glint of his eyes showed above the rims of his sunglasses. “Passable. Worth facing Satan for, at least.”Not what he was asking, and Aziraphale was equally sure that Crowley knew and was avoiding answering, and also that it was ludicrous to think that a demon – even one of six thousand years of acquaintance – could possibly—“...Angel, you don’t want to know,” Crowley amended his answer, his head turning back to gaze up at the molecules of intoxication potential.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Shh. This pairing has been my OTP probably longer than any other OTP. And now some blasted idiots went and made it WORSE or BETTER, I don't know. Sorry. 
> 
> Also the title is from BNL's 'When I Fall', because reasons.

It was late. Later still, if you remembered that the world was supposed to have ended. What was the term Crowley used, as they rode back on the bus towards the newly-repaired London?

Oh, yes. ‘Extra time’. Aziraphale knew this to be something related to sports, but not which. He’d been there for the games where the winners were usually lions (a fight between a lion and a Christian normally ended the same way, unless an Angelic [and never, really, honestly why would you suggest such a thing – Demonic -] influence affected the outcome.) Or, on another continent with significantly less convenient plumbing, the winners were ritually sacrificed to gods with a small ‘g’. Try as he might, he had never found the way to enjoy it since. 

But that was by the by. It was late, and the pre-defined rules were all – apparently – Ineffably Unknowable. They’d been trundling along trying to avert the Apocalypse, and now they’d done it...

He was sort of at a loss as to what next. 

Crowley seemed to know, or was acting like he did. They were here, in his flat, and Crowley lounged, liquid-like, in a plush armchair. It seemed more form than function, but much of what Crowley liked was. The glass of wine he held aloft swirled in the artificial lighting, catching a ray here or there and casting coloured shadow on the walls. 

Aziraphale wanted to grab him by the shoulders and scream, but that would be unseemly. The image of it swirled like the merlot, and he blinked to clear his mind. He should be happy. It worked. They were still here. They were alive, or – at least – existing. Together. On an Earth that continued to revolve around her star, when she wasn’t turning her face to the Moon. 

_Everything we knew was wrong._ He could say that. Or: _Everything we felt was right._

Two ways of saying the same thing. 

The Lord Almighty, in Her infinite wisdom, had chosen to let this happen. Maybe, even, made it so. Even for an angel of the Lord, the rules on omniscience and omnipotence were a three-bottle minimum before he felt he understood them. And every time his absolute truth was different to the last.

Instead of screaming, he cleared his throat. Twice. Until the demon’s head rolled onto his shoulder, those sheltered eyes fixed upon him, indicating his attention. 

“What was it like?” Aziraphale asked, apropos of everything and nothing, all at once.

“...the wine?” Crowley asked, his head tilting further so the slightest glint of his eyes showed above the rims of his sunglasses. “Passable. Worth facing Satan for, at least.”

Not what he was asking, and Aziraphale was equally sure that Crowley knew and was avoiding answering, and also that it was ludicrous to think that a demon – even one of six thousand years of acquaintance – could possibly—

“...Angel, you don’t want to know,” Crowley amended his answer, his head turning back to gaze up at the molecules of intoxication potential. His voice was quieter. Where once the term ‘Angel’ had been a derogatory thing, reducing Aziraphale down to his species, his... his classification, or whatever you wanted...

In recent years, the tone had shifted. Aziraphale couldn’t tell you when he noticed (he could, but angels will lie when it suits them, and some lies were... essential), but now it was no longer a scathing thing, but... but almost... dare he say, endearing? He knew sweethearts and close friends would use alternative names for one another, and Aziraphale held onto the kindling warmth he felt when the term crossed the demon’s forked tongue.

“I do.”

He had asked once, many years ago, and the answer had been less polite. After suggesting he try it for himself and see, along with other choice words, Crowley had refused to speak to him for an entire century, though he claimed he was just so bored he needed to sleep. Aziraphale had spent the whole time feeling utterly miserable, and even more insatiably curious, but when Crowley finally emerged from his hibernation and silently proposed they pretend it hadn’t happened, he’d bitten his tongue and filed the query away.

But the day after the End that Wasn’t, surely that was a reason to... to air any old laundry? Hadn’t they earned it?

“Why?” Crowley snapped, whirling and placing the glass miraculously down without a single droplet spilled. Rage and fear fluttered around him, fear that he was pushing into the anger to cover it up. Lips curled back from teeth, a tongue that was almost, but not quite, visible. “ _Schadenfreude_? Want to laugh at my Fall from Grace? Want to vicariously enjoy it, or congratulate yourself on avoiding it? Or you just want to torture me by making me relive the single, worssst—“ 

There was a pause.

“Joint most painful moment of my existence?” he finished.

Well. Put it like that. “No,” Aziraphale replied, as carefully as he could. “I wanted to understand... what you went through. And... and why I haven’t.”

Why hadn’t he thought about how painful it would be to relive that? To explain it to him. Why hadn’t he put the demon’s – his _friend’s_ \- feelings ahead of his own need to know more? He felt utterly miserable and disappointed with himself, and he tried to wave the point away, wondering what he could say to ameliorate this. Their spats had become perhaps more frequent, but also more rapidly resolved. The thought that the world was ending had done wonders for their sense of urgency, and he hoped they wouldn’t relapse back to the old days of—

“You know what it was like, In The Beginning,” Crowley started, his form moving back to sprawl legs-over the edge of the couch, head back, propped on one bent arm. 

It looked, almost, like the Couch that Freud had confused people on for years. And Aziraphale’s Grace broke all over again, that his friend would do this. Would answer him. Would... let him see. 

“Yes,” he replied, softly. He remembered. He remembered the days of the Choir Celestial, he remembered when there was naught but Her and them. 

He remembered Lucifer, though he hadn’t known the then-angel at all well. He remembered the Garden, and the way the two Humans had been before. He remembered it all as perfectly as he needed to.

“Now. Imagine the worst thing you can ever think of... like... like watching your bookshop burn down, and you know you can’t go in to save anything. Knowing you lit the match, and threw the petrol on the flames. Knowing you won’t get another bookshop, and knowing everyone else gets bookshops and libraries and _Amazon_.”

That last one elicited the expected snort of mingled derision and... longing, that complicated double-feeling that he experienced when thinking about online book sales. It was a large part of why he wouldn’t go ‘on the line’, though he had occasionally used an intermediary’s Prime account to have things sent to him. He hoped it was a legitimate use of it, but if it wasn’t... well.

But it was also surprising that Crowley picked that. True, if you wanted to quickly panic him, all you had to do was threaten his forest of hardbacked children, but it was hardly the biggest concern he’d ever had. He curled around the shadow of hope that maybe this wasn’t his own nightmare, but... Crowley’s other joint worst day.

That would be silly.

Right?

“Imagine that pain, and multiply it beyond numbers that even you or I can contemplate. Imagine... feeling Love – capital L – and then realising it wasn’t real. It was all a lie.”

The demon’s voice cracked for a moment, then he coughed, trying to control it. Aziraphale wondered which of them was hurting the most right now, because he was sure it’s himself, and not the one who should be. His very Grace ached in the shadow of the pain, multiplied by an anger that flared in the pit of his belly. 

“It wasn’t a lie,” he insisted.

“Really?” The glasses came down, slitted, hurt eyes fixing on him. “Unconditional Love is supposed to be just that. Not, ‘I’ll kick you out of one Garden when you piss me off, indulge in targeted ethnic cleansing because you’re all the naughty children I made you to be, followed by bloody murdering my own son to say sorry, but you still only get to visit my house if you are more sorry than me’, Angel.”

This is the part where he should say it’s Ineffable, and the point about being Ineffable is that you can’t Eff it. You can’t understand it, explain it, reason with it. It’s beyond you, because – because – it just is. You were created with a limited sense of reason, and no darned apple, satsuma, kiwi, grape, or fermented version of any fruit whatsoever is going to make you able to understand Good and Evil, not **really** , or else why would Evil exist, and why would anyone choose to do it, and why—

“Why you?” the angel rasped out, his throat aching over the words. 

“Damned if I know.”

“Crowley!”

“No, I mean it. If you ask me, _She_ is the sadist. What the Hell – or Heaven – kind of parent makes their kids bad then punishes them for it, huh? You don’t think I’ve asked myself the same damn thing for six thousand years? One day you’re an angel, and everything is fucking sparkles and unicorns and candy, and the next day the sparkles are up your arse and so is the unicorn. And it isn’t a _nice_ unicorn. It’s a blasted demon rhino from the seventh circle and you’re supposed to just deal with the fact that _They_ can fix things but _you_ can’t.”

Can’t, or won’t? 

Aziraphale was silent, as he thought about it. Why should Humanity get Free Will, and Forgiveness? And why could he disobey the Divine Plan and Heaven and get a free pass because it was Ineffable, but Crowley – who had, over the years, done probably the same amount of sinning as Aziraphale (to balance it out, the angel told himself, to keep the status as quo as they could, just... for convenience...)

“Do you want to?” he asked.

“What?”

“Fix things.”

“ **Demon** ,” he reminded him, with a flicker of his tongue. “Chose it.”

“You said you didn’t.”

“Well I bloody did, didn’t I?”

Did he? The Principality was now experiencing what he could only refer to as an Ineffable Theological Migraine. 

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“If your question is: do I want to go back to frilly fucking knickers and holier-than-thou excuses for being a shit, then the answer is a resounding ‘no’. At least I’m honest about being a bastard. Heaven can stuff it.”

Yes. Well. Aziraphale had to say he agreed to that. 

“What has Heaven got, that I could _possibly_ want?”

Me? A tiny voice squeaked inside his treacherous fake brain. Real brain. He wasn’t quite sure, now. He knew he still had existence – a Form of a kind – without this body, but it hadn’t felt... _right_ to be outside of it. 

But what did it have? In all honesty, though Aziraphale didn’t want to climb every mountain for eternity, and was really rather fond of the gourmand life, it was something (someone) else that he’d rebelled for. As much as he loved Humanity in general, it was a different thing. A warm, but disperse emotion. He suspected that must be how God felt to all of Creation, just a little bit... deeper.

How lonely, to be alone, like that. To be only worshipped, and to be... separate. To have no equal, to have no friend, to have no... companion. 

“The same as it has for me, my dear.” Their eyes met, and held, for far too long. 

Come with me, he’d said. Run away. Stay at mine. All those lies Aziraphale had told himself, about how this was all for Humanity, all for the Earth, the whales, and everything in between. But when it had come to the very crux of the matter, and he’d been there, in the halls of Heaven...

It wasn’t Heaven. Not really. Not for him. Not without Crowley. 

Maybe he had Fallen, and he just didn’t know it. Maybe this was how it started, that slide that Crowley mentioned. A trickle of intentions and a path you weren’t sure of. But surely he would have been struck down, extricated from existence, or at the very least aware of his own transgression, if it was truly Wrong?

“Did you eat from the Tree?” Aziraphale asked.

They should have stopped this nonsense, but now he couldn’t. It was as if the invisible barrier that kept him from going that bit too far was gone, and all the doubt and wonder and hope and fear of his whole existence was bubbling below the surface, like potatoes in a pan. 

“No. D’you?”

“No.”

“S’funny. She said that the fruit would tell them the difference between Good and Evil.”

“What’s funny?”

“For one, how could they understand they shouldn’t eat it, if they didn’t know what Evil was. And two, if they know, now, then why do they do all thisstuff? All... all...” He was beginning to sound drunk again, or maybe tired. “If they understood, why would they spend so bloody long arguing about it.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

He was not drunk enough for this, and he felt strangely... strangely like someone had put a flaming sword into his chest, and prised him open, like an oyster. Like all the soft bits inside were shuddering in the air. Ineffable. 

Heaven that wasn’t Heaven. Hell that had things like Crowley. Humans, messy, delightful, frustrating, annoying, wicked and beautiful. He felt almost like he nearly could see it, but then again it would be presumptuous of him. As presumptuous, maybe, as calling Her himself. Bypassing all the protocol, thinking he knew better... 

“Crowley.”

“’Ziraphale.”

“I know – I know we aren’t supposed to – but I wondered if I could possibly—“

“ _Angel_ ,” came the drawl, exasperated and affectionate in equal measure. “We just talked the Antichrist into refusing to end the world, pissed off _both_ sides, and you’re worried about ‘supposed to’? What could you posssssibly do that’s worse?”

Plenty, came the treacherous inner voice, making his cheeks heat up at the concept. But he cleared his throat, unnecessarily, again. “I know that Hell is, well, hellish. And I know you... you just said you wouldn’t go back to Heaven...”

“Your point?”

“You... are happy, here.”

“Wellllllll, yes?”

“So, it worked out in the end, for you?”

Crowley blinked. And then blinked some more. And then he started to laugh, which was the kind of hysterical laugh he’d only heard a few times, and never to this depth. Aziraphale couldn’t help it, and he started to laugh, too. 

Crowley. Thrown out of a place he didn’t really like as punishment, only to find his own Garden. His own Paradise. One that, coincidentally, Aziraphale also preferred. Something worth risking immolation for. 

“You – oh – you are—are you really?” More laughs, wheezing between, catching hissing breath that wasn’t needed. 

Okay, now Aziraphale floundered. “I thought – I mean, you said when I—and I thought you meant that—“

“Angel...”

It would be so, so easy to let him laugh this away, to be mocked into silence, as ever. So, so easy to let Crowley duck away from admitting they were _friends_. Best friends. That – that the best part of being here was having someone to be here _with_. Books and crepes and so on were all very good, but they weren’t... everything. 

“No. No, I shan’t let you dismiss this.”

The demon slouched a little, but Aziraphale puffed up more. 

“Stop it. You can’t – you can’t blow hot and cold on me.”

“Me?” The tone took incredulity to new heights. “You spend six thousand years making excuses about spending time with me, denying you like my company, telling me how – how _wrong_ and **awful** I am—“

“You’re a _demon_.”

“Yeah, well, so what? So fucking what?! You have more in common with me than with _any_ of your feathered brethren, and you know it. You like your dalliances with the devil, you cheat and lie as much as me, and you pretend you’re any _better_ than me?”

“Well, I’m not.”

His cheeks were hot. His everything was hot. Like he was sitting here in Hellfire. And all the wind was, in a breath, cut from Crowley’s indignation.

“I thought you were _dead_.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t, because you’ve never bloody Fallen. You don’t know – you don’t know what it’s like.”

“So _tell me_.” He was begging, pleading. Asking for something he didn’t have the words for, but which he knew, somehow, like he knew that Good and Evil weren’t as distinct as he once thought. Bad Deeds for Good Reasons. Or, picking the least bad of multiple alternatives. 

He knew. So why did he need to hear it?

“Angel... _Aziraphale_... what do you _want_ from me? Really. Whatever I do, whatever I say—“

“Then tell me.” Please. God in Heaven, please. He thought perhaps he was crying, though it was difficult to know for sure. “I need to know.”

The sunglasses went flying, and Crowley launched at him, grabbing his jacket, sneering angrily into his face. “Fine. **Fine**. I helped save the fucking world because I hate Hell, kind of like it here, and because of you. And then I thought you – I thought they – I thought you were _dead_ and the idea of spending whatever passed for the rest of my existence in a universe where you weren’t—you. The bloody enemy. The only being that ever seemed to give half a shit about me, and even though you hated me as well because I’m a filthy, rotten snake... you didn’t hate me just enough for me to pretend at times you liked me, too.”

Fucking... Aziraphale rarely thought in such extreme language, but the moment called for it, and he lifted a hand cautiously. Watching the wince – the instinctive draw back – was like his own wings being plucked from him. He waited for Crowley to calm and consent by not withdrawing, then he curled his palm and fingers around an almost-gaunt cheek. He had touched the demon before, usually in passing, usually for purpose... helping him up, nudging him to the safer path, but not with such deliberate and slow intent. 

“You fool.” His voice wasn’t handling this much honesty, and Crowley was so close. “Hate you, my dear? Anything but.” Why couldn't he say it? Why was it so hard? It was real, and had been so for the longest of times. But the fear... the fear of what Crowley would say, of what it would mean for himself...

Bugger it.

“I love you, Crowley. I don’t know why you don’t see it.”

As the demon tried to pull back, the angel held on. 

“Don’t be bloody daft. You _can’t_.”

“Oh?”

“Demon! Demon! Sodding evil, sinful, wicked, monstrous, bad to the bone DEMON.”

He should have told him so much sooner, oh, Heavens. Lord forgive him. How could Aziraphale have been so wicked? To let him suffer so long, because of? Of his own fear? Of his own insecurity? He’d been a terrible, terrible angel and an even worse friend.

Both hands, then, holding him in place and demanding their wet eyes met. 

“I chose you, Crowley. No, you aren’t perfect, and you occasionally drive me out of my mind with either worry or frustration, but that’s why it’s love.”

“Well, you’re a bloody angel, so—“

“So I should know. And I suppose, now, I do. I love you. With all your annoying tendencies. And your sins. And your car that drives too fast. And your atrocious taste in music. And how you pretend you aren’t as good as you really are – and don’t you argue with me! And I don’t care that you made mistakes.”

Crowley’s eyes jammed shut, and Aziraphale could see the way blood drained from half his face, to light up the rest, and he leaned in to kiss one crimson-stained cheek. 

“You c-can’t—“

“I can, and I do. And I don’t believe you are anything like _them_. Because you – you know the difference. And you do good things, even though you think it won’t help you at all.”

“I do them to make you happy,” Crowley protested. “So it’s still selfish.”

“And I suppose if you were doing it to make God happy, that wouldn’t be selfish, too?”

That made him pause.

“Crowley... I’ve seen you do things you really shouldn’t. And not for yourself. No, you aren’t perfect, but I’m beginning to think nothing ever is. You don’t belong in Heaven... you belong here. With the people. With all their imagination, and their inventions, and – and – their _choices_.”

Crowley was more Human than anything else. And Aziraphale knew he loved him, but more than just the kind of love that he felt for other things. It was him. He couldn’t imagine eternity without him. Or, he could, and he would rather suffer a million smitings of his own than live through it. 

And his demon – his beloved – was fighting himself. Fighting years upon years of knowing, knowing to the core, that he was unwanted. Unloved. Unloveable. Yearning for that Light that once he’d known, and kept so close and so far away.

Maybe Earth was Hell, for him, after all. Or it had been.

“Don’t mock me, angel.” His demon turned his head, his lips brushing his palm. “Or try to say things just to make me feel better.”

“You know Love. You remember how it feels.”

“I don’t need to _remember_.”

So it was true. How long had Crowley been in love with him, too? Convinced it would – and could – never be requited? And loving him all the same? Oh, Heavens. You had to have a choice for the choice to mean anything.

“Come to me. Let me show you. And... and know that I’m sorry.”

“...what for?”

“Being so slow, when you were by far the quicker student.”

Somehow, they managed to bend physics enough to both fit on the couch, with Crowley huddled against him, under a wing and an arm, just touching. Hands sliding, knees knocking, breaths aligning. Crowley had suggested things like this a million times over, jokingly or off-handedly, mentioning the need to share warmth or to do things like ‘Netflix and chill’, and Aziraphale had always declined.

Not because it was wrong, but because he knew if they started, they would never stop. Every step closer, after a brief scuffle, the Arrangement encompassed something new, and something that could never be undone.

Like feeling the demon curl in against his side, and the feathers of their wings rustle silently together. The pounding sense of rightness that made him sure he was doing the right thing. The little shudders of pain he could soothe, and the odd liberation of knowing it was... it was... reciprocated. 

He’d known, when Crowley had risked his personal safety for him. He’d known when the demon had done little acts of kindness, and not mentioned them. In fact, he’d tried to hide them, or deny them, and not from some false modesty. He’d known in a hundred little deeds and a thousand bigger ones. 

And it was all his own fault, that it had taken this long. He’d tortured Crowley without fully knowing, and he hated himself for it, almost as much as Crowley must hate _him_ self. 

The angel slid his fingers into flaming locks, teasing at the scalp below. His body certainly enjoyed this latest indulgence, but it was another part of him that was happiest. The part that felt the almost-purr from his – his... his demon. The way their legs ended up in a ridiculous knot, giving several muscle clusters cramp. His demon was... happy. 

But silent. As if speaking might dispel the moment, unmake their personal paradise. With houseplants that radiated fear and confusion, a demon who saved the world, and an angel who didn’t do what he was supposed to. 

Aziraphale slid his hand under his demon’s chin, tilting it up, smiling softly at the amber eyes that flitted self-consciously across his face. 

“If this is where you decide you’ve changed your mind—“

“My dear. You do have me _so_ wrong. I... simply wanted to look at you.”

“You forgot what I look like?”

“No. But I enjoy doing it.” He also enjoyed seeing how easily Crowley would fluster and turn pink in places. Who would have known that the way to torture him was to deny, then give him love? This wicked creature who just craved affection so much that he spent his whole life making it almost impossible for anyone to like him, and failing miserably?

“When did you become so smooth?”

“About the same time you became so frumpy.”

That made him jump up, their legs still tangled, but affront on his face. “Frumpy? Mr Tartan Kecks himself?”

“You heard me. How long have you been trying to seduce me?”

“I- wait – what?”

“Isn’t that what you... I mean, with all the suggestions, I thought...” Oh, dear. “You weren’t?”

“Uh, no offence, but I didn’t think that was anything you’d like. I kind of didn’t think we’d get much beyond picnics, peril, and pernod.” Crowley scratched behind an ear, a nervous tic. “You’re kind of ruining my unrequited pining here, you know.”

“Would you prefer I call you a filthy demon and leave?” he teased in return, and pushed his foot to his... partner? His partner’s. To show that he didn’t mean it, not in the slightest. “It was never unrequited. I was just not... very clear on my... requiting.”

“You think?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t exactly... I thought, if I did, that...” The frog in his throat really should relocate. “I thought I might... Fall. And I thought they might... I thought it might... mean we ended up apart, or maybe that you wouldn’t... wouldn’t be interested in me.”

“Why?”

“Ah, I – I suspect I was... looking for an excuse.”

“And it doesn’t bother you, now? You know, the whole... damnation thing?”

“You’re damned. You said it wasn’t so bad. And yes, I’m sure. Surer than I have ever felt. Our own side.”

Slender fingers combed the devilish hair back from his face, conveniently hiding his expression. “Can’t say I’m not tempted.”

“Am I doing your job for you, again?”

“Ha-bloody-ha. Wait... you mean to tell me the last time you were asking me about – you know – that was you... asking me out?”

Sort of? His nose scrunched up in frustration. “I... yes?”

“...and then I promptly slept for a century?”

“...well, yes.”

This laugh was short, and sharp, and a hand slapped his thigh in a way that sent odd little tingles up to his hip. 

“I cock-blocked you for a _century_? That has to be a record... wait, did you even have a cock?”

“N-no, I thought it would be a temptation, and... I didn’t want to... you know. Wish it away if you said no.” He tilted his head. “Do you?”

“Sometimes. Mostly it gets in the way when I’m sitting down, or the bollocks get hot in summer. Bloody nuisance, but occasionally good fun.”

And that lead to a furiously fierce reaction that Aziraphale belatedly recognised was jealousy. Pure, unbridled jealousy. Good. Fun. Not that it really mattered, because it was just – you know – physical things. It was just physical things, wasn’t it? Because... because it was okay for... maybe if he—

That was when two slender, pink lips pecked chastely at his own, and when the snake pulled back, his eyes were laughing. “What’s wrong, angel?”

“N-nothing.” Demon. Remember he was a demon. 

“I meant masturbation, if you’re wondering. Yeah. I know. Go blind if I keep doing it... but it was fun.”

“So you didn’t – ah – you haven’t?”

“Called a landline once. One of them that’s stuck in phone boxes. Does that count? I didn’t end up doing anything about it, and I tried magazines and tapes, but... yeah. I wasn’t looking for a relationship, and anything brief would be, uh...”

“Unsatisfying?”

“Yeah... if I just want to make a mess, I can do that on my own, and not have to worry about being nice or having to make them think I’m nice - _which I did not do_ \- so... anyway, I kind of had my eyes on someone.”

Now Aziraphale flustered. Preened, almost, at that knowledge, even if it was rather meaningless and endlessly important, all at the same time. His demon had waited for him. Of all the surprisingly ‘good’ things, this was... well. It felt special. 

He’d always worried that Crowley considered their Arrangement in different terms, that it meant something... less solid, less... resonant, to him. And something as simple as this was balm to his Grace. Crowley was a gentleman, even though he was a demon. 

“This someone must be quite the catch to keep you on the straight and narrow.”

“Funny. Humans would think I wasn’t straight, and this... gloriously thick-headed Principality is anything but narrow.”

“Oh.”

“It’s okay. I – love him, anyway.” Crowley put a hand on his thigh, and slowly stroked it up. “Maddening as he is. He’s the ‘treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen’ type. And it just made me...”

Oh. Crowley’s hand moved to where things should be, but weren’t. 

“W-would you... would it be alright with you if I--?”

“Six _thousand_ times, yes, you idiot. You don’t get to go dangling carrots in front of me and expect me not to try to _bite_.”

Technically it was a metaphorical-metaphorical carrot, as he hadn’t actually made the decision to engage with the carnal side of things, when his own attempt at furthering their relationship had failed, but he thought it was a bit late to argue semantics. 

“Perhaps we might... move somewhere more comfortable, and... into something more comfortable?”

“No dinner, first?”

“How many bloody dinners do you need?” Aziraphale asked, and then echoed the earlier gesture. He leaned in, and kissed the demon back, leaving his lips on longer, and savouring the way it made the heart in his chest pound. “I already Fell for you.”

“Fell? You look pretty—“

“I Fell. I left Heaven. And I Fell in Love. And I found Heaven. If you want to start from the beginning again, we can, but—“

“Alright, alright... you win. You have successfully tempted me. And are you _sure_ you aren’t one of ‘my’ kind?”

He snapped them through to the bedroom, head cocked to one side. “I am.” The invisible, third kind. 

Aziraphale had planned his sexuality to the nth degree many centuries ago. If he went into things, he went into them with the kind of military plan that regularly went wrong, but certainly looked like it shouldn’t. He’d researched both genders extensively (as, at the time, that was all people would agree to recognise), and watched Crowley’s interactions with them to sift through for any preference he showed. He’d also looked for ‘types’, and come to the hopeful conclusion that his type was ‘angel’. 

So he shifted reality, just a little, and let what the body assumed was natural... appear. It was one set of mostly-symmetrical testes, plus an intact shaft and foreskin of possibly thicker but no longer than usual size. He had debated about the practice of circumcision, but as Humanity had now mostly settled from nomadic days and could properly cleanse, there was no moral or religious reason to comply. No reason not to, but Adam – the first Adam – had been whole, so he could be, too. 

He felt giddy in a way that went beyond drunk, and which had started long before he had made the required changes. Giddy and happy and terrified all in one, which he could only put down to it being Love. 

Knowing with complete certainty that it went both ways was... overwhelming. He’d been blasphemous enough before, but he couldn’t help but think that this Love was... better. Better than what he’d felt in the past, and at least part of that was knowing it was reciprocated, despite the whole universe trying to tell them ‘no’. That they were so perfect together that it transcended all old forms of logic, and went back to the realest one of all. That – that fundamental truth about – oh yes, the line from the musical that was very pretty but not very true to the Revolution: _To love another person is to see the face of God_. 

It wasn’t the face, as that was something else entirely, but it was – it was the intent, the heart, the reason. The whole reason, he reckoned, as he watched a creature who was damned toe shyly out of his socks and try to look suave when in reality there were several existential crises wrestling with impossibly deep affection and a raspberry-swirl of self-loathing that was fighting to keep him back. 

Give them a choice, and let them choose. Give them the ability to do as they want, and when they do it, it’s real. Love in the Garden, or even in Heaven – it would not have been a choice, it would have been an expectation. No effort, and no challenge, and no real connection. His demon wouldn’t have been ‘him’, under all that constriction. He wouldn’t have been anything more than a puppet, dancing to God’s own hand. 

But here, let loose, he could be Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley, to be precise. He’d become something so much more by being able to choose... something they had tried to do for Warlock, and inadvertently done for Adam, instead.

Aziraphale closed the distance, and put one hand around Crowley’s face again. The third kiss was even better than the other two, and this one involved whuffs of air from Crowley’s nose onto his face, and a slow parting of lips. An offering, rather than a taking, and Aziraphale took the gift like the fattest of oxen. He dipped his tongue past the gap, finding sharp teeth and a hiss. Hands that started to unpeel the layers encasing him, and he returned the favour with his own. 

Crowley didn’t taste like brimstone, or like apples, or like anything other than the wine and the day he’d had. There was a flicker of his ‘real’ or ‘original’ self, and then the angel heard the way his demon’s heart started to thud like crazy, and the way his wings restlessly stroked thin air. He was enjoying the attention, maybe more than the touches, and the angel made a silent promise to himself to never stop giving it to him. He’d suffered plenty. God might not be ready to forgive him, but that didn’t mean Aziraphale couldn’t.

Down and backwards, onto the bed, kneeling astride his hips and grabbing his hands to push into the mattress. It was instinct that moved him, a subtle read of the other’s needs, or a knowledge innate of his own. His ass lowered onto Crowley’s upper thighs, and he gazed at him from too close in.

“Angel, don’t tease.”

“I have eternity to make you happy, my dear.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you can only do it once so it has to _wait_.”

“Are you afraid I might change my mind?”

“Or be taken,” Crowley confirmed, with uncharacteristic openness. No glib surface, no sheen of deceit. 

“I will always come back to you. Always. If the world ends, I will march into Hell myself, if I must.”

“And – what? Take me to Alpha Centauri?”

“Further, if I must.”

Something broke in the creature below him, something long-pent-up and awful. His head turned to hide the tears, but Aziraphale would have none of that, and he used a wing to nudge them nose-to-nose again. 

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Tell you the truth? Tell you that I love you beyond all reason? That I would defy all the Heavenly Host to be with you?”

“You might not be able to.”

“Then I’ll tell them to damn me, because it won’t be my Heaven if I am parted from you. I adore you. I **adore** you. And I will not let anyone keep you from me. Not even my own, ridiculous insecurities, and certainly not yours.”

/Then show me./

Angels didn’t need to speak aloud, not between themselves. Any who inhabited a body tended to, or at least that was the perception that was followed. But some – some could speak right into your mind, and the challenge-plea he heard went right down his spine and through the very core of him, to land somewhere behind his newly-created cock. 

How could he ever show him quite how deeply he felt for him? Had all those little white lies over the years not been enough? Offering to hurl himself from Grace? Would he even be able to work past a scar inflicted by the Almighty Herself? He didn’t know. But he was going to find out.

/You are mine/ the angel replied, and this kiss _was_ a demand, was forceful, was pushed beyond his lips and as deep into his body as he could make it. He felt the half-hearted attempt to wriggle free under him, but he knew it wasn’t a rejection. Crowley needed to know it was real, that he couldn’t push the angel away. That what he wanted wasn’t bad, or wrong, or going to break them. 

H- uh, Heaven’s sake, he’d been the one to suggest it to him. 

Crowley’s body candesced below him, a sinuous wave that started below his skull and undulated him beneath Aziraphale like the ocean craving the shore, but afraid to commit for long. 

He found Crowley’s hands, and pinned them beneath his own. Palm-to-palm, fingers interlaced, as he blazed out his affection and possession and protectiveness into the electric song that joined their skin. His Grace, but only for a second, because the demon winced in pain.

He lifted his head, breaking the kiss, to see those yellow eyes were almost black. His hair was mussed around his head like an ungodly halo, and sharp canines peeked out at the world like curious animals. 

“Did I hurt you?”

“Yeah. But it’s okay. I’m not on fire.”

“...have we considered if, ah, the exchanging of... bodily fluids might be—“

“Did you honestly just refer to your jizz as—“ and now a shudder, “—holy water?”

Not precisely what he’d meant, but close. Aziraphale giggled, and pushed his face into Crowley’s neck. 

“I’m glad you find my imminent destruction due to angel dick hilarious, ‘Zira.”

“Oh, hush. If you prefer, I can always wear a – what do they call it? Timmy?”

“Johnny.”

“Well, should we practice safe sex?”

“...your saliva didn’t kill me.”

“True, but – isn’t it... different?”

“You mean, Angel-Immuno-Deficiency?”

Now that was a little too far, and Aziraphale swatted him with a wing. 

“Hey! Okay. How about... how about we do a little test, and if I don’t start to smoke, then we know you’re clean? Or... I’m not allergic?”

“What kind of test?”

“The kind where you finish up the undressing, and I... well. I show you what I used to get up to. If yours works like mine, it will get a bit messy before it’s over, anyway, and if that’s fine then we, uh, should be okay.”

Was it as ludicrous at times for Humans? He supposed so. What with the child-rearing and then the communicable issues, plus if any of those Agony Aunt columns he’d occasionally (guiltily) skimmed told him much, it was that the vast majority of Humans thought they were better at this than they actually were, never spoke to their partner to see if it was true, and then they told everyone else instead. 

“Should I – I mean, do you have any... requests?”

“Is this a phone-in radio?”

He couldn’t really get angry with him. Instead, he chose to ignore it. “I meant, for—“

“I knew what you meant. And I dunno. I never really managed to get this far.”

“...’this’ far?”

“When... when I was... you know. Choking my chicken. Uh. I never thought you’d agree, so I just used to... uh. Think about you eating, or reading, or smiling. I... sometimes you’d kiss me.” 

The demon looked ready for the pit to welcome him home at that admission. He’d – he’d masturbated to thoughts of Aziraphale? That had been his ‘go to’ fantasy? His chest got tighter still. His ridiculous, perfect idiot. 

“I used to think maybe you’d kiss me,” he confessed, watching the light show that was Crowley’s face at the admission. “Maybe slow dance with me. Uh. Picnics. Listening to the water running, the birds singing. Maybe hold my hand.”

Such innocent daydreams, he realised, now. He hadn’t the imaginative confidence to go any further, and they’d both been courting the other with such awkward ineptitude that it had taken an Apocalypse for them to even get this far. 

“Is there anything you... think you might like to try? I can say I am not well versed in all the names of positions, at least the more modern ones, but I – I think I should like to try anything you might.”

“Maybe we start with that test, then we don’t need to worry, and... see how it goes?”

“And... may I also touch you?”

The eye-roll in return caused another little giggle, and then they were rolling to face each other, one wing each tucked back, the other invisibly rubbing up against its mate’s. Aziraphale felt a little self-conscious, but the ravenous adulation on his demon’s face soon soothed that worry. He hoped his own reaction went some way to helping Crowley feel the same.

“You didn’t skimp, did you.” Crowley pursed his lips as he reviewed the situation. 

“...what?”

“I kind of thought you’d go all, you know, Michelangelo on me. Be modest and stuff.”

“...is it too big?”

“Very, very few people complain about that. Or so I understand.”

Aziraphale looked down. Maybe it was too big. It shouldn’t take up more space than Crowley’s, which looked pretty interestingly similar, if a tiny bit smaller, and—

“Don’t you dare miracle your dick off,” came the growl as a hand curled around it. “Not after I waited this long.”

The sensation of Crowley’s hands anywhere had been delicious enough, but that was like the amuse-bouche to this sudden banquet of sensation. That, combined with the fervour in his tone, combined with the knowledge that Crowley would do this to himself while thinking of _him_. He bit his fist in order to hide the squeak, and then rucked his hips forwards to get more. 

It wasn’t wrong. No matter what the masses and the ones controlling the masses had said, over the years, the angel had to admit that the Church of Satan (the one without Lucifer as the head, just the idea of being different) had been one of the ones to get it right. Do it with people who want to do it with you, and that’s pretty much all you need to worry about. Not that either of them were actually capable (he was sure) of procreation with other species, or even amongst their own Celestial and semi-Celestial population, so there wasn’t even anything _to_ waste, but as he knew full well that She had been glad of Adam and Eve’s joyous unions, so would every carnal encounter be considered Good, should it be enjoyed and enjoyable. 

It wasn’t wrong, but some of the years of prudishness had maybe rubbed up on him, or perhaps it was because it was _him_ and _them_ and it was different when you were involved. And when you happened to care for your person so intensely. And when you wanted it to be bloody perfect and you had a minor fear that your own consummation might, in fact, kill him.

But Crowley was smiling. A cautious, delicate smile. Not a smirk, not a sneer, not a sarcastic slant of his lips. A genuine smile. 

So he reached across, and let his fingers trail down over the serpent’s flat belly, and glance the tips across the head of his shaft. It got him a petulant whine, and (feeling wicked) he dragged perfectly trimmed nails from the base of the flare up to the crown. He had no idea if it was the Done Thing, but it had his demon wriggling and panting, one foot drumming into the bed. 

Bolstered by the response, he moved the palm of his hand over the opening slit, and scrunched his fingers back and forth, away and towards. He had to be different, of course, from the way Crowley was touching him. He had to make sure he knew it was real, and not a fantasy... uh... wank. His own cock was being alternately squeezed and then vigorously rubbed, making his thighs tighten and his ass push his hips into the touching. 

“...w-want you to... ngh...” 

“What?” Aziraphale asked, fighting the fog of lust that swirled in with the love. It really was rather much better than intoxication, with the added bonus of making someone else feel good, too. 

“A-angel!”

/Show me/ he echoed back at him, as he leaned in to kiss those stuttering lips. 

It might have been un-words, or images, but the flood of desires that smashed into him spoke of such long denial. Crowley wanted Aziraphale to straddle him, to hold him down, and come all over his chest. He wanted the angel to mount him, grab his hair, his hips, and pound him raw. He wanted to ride the angel’s ass in return, holding his wings and buggering him into oblivion. He wanted to drop to his knees and worship his lover. He wanted to be beaten raw and bloody like he was sure he deserved. He wanted to be... oh. He wanted Aziraphale to... to take him so slowly, or ride him, or both or maybe neither... the position blurred, leaving behind the emotions behind it. He wanted the fierce anger of love, he wanted the sacrifice and selflessness, and he wanted the calm and peace and safety. He wanted everything, literally everything that Aziraphale could possibly give him, give to him, or do with him. 

/Yes/ he thought back, and let the kiss turn kinder, gentler, his hand moving to echo the demon’s own touches. To give back what he received, to let him know it was okay. 

/Yes/ he thought again, and gave his own, long-denied thoughts in return. 

Sitting in the Ritz, their toes touching beneath the table, hands glancing above it, shared jokes and no unease between them. The sun beating down on them as they watched Humanity drift by, their wings laced like fingers between them. Kisses in a kitchen, while cocoa got cold, pressed into a fridge and ignoring the world as they got lost in the knowledge of each other, warts and all. Fingers in hair. Watching the demon sleep, guarding him, making sure his dreams were sweet. Holding him down, wrapped in thin bands of Grace and wanting, worshipping his body and bringing him to ecstasy, making him forget that pain could exist at all. Slow union. Fast. Jealous and demanding, and caring and giving. Taking out the irritation of all the years lost, and then celebrating all the future gained. 

/I need to--/

/So do I./

He broke the kiss, requesting the eye-contact this time, wanting to watch the flare of pleasure. Wanting to know he’d made his day a little brighter. Wanting to know he forgave his angel for taking so long. Wanting to know it was real, it was right, and it was their choice. 

Crowley didn’t speak when his climax hit, but the rapture that rolled over him was as powerful as any miracle. It made something broken inside Aziraphale knit a bit tighter together, and he hoped - **prayed** \- that it made him feel the same, too. 

Crowley didn’t say ‘I love you’ as he eased his angel over into his own Fall, but he didn’t need to. It was there in the glow and the rush that felt more like Heaven than he could remember Heaven feeling like. They were both spent, and neither of them had combusted, and the world hadn’t ended (again). 

“Can I make a tiny request?” Crowley asked, as he started to wiggle back in for more contact, even with all the gloriously sticky mess.

“Mmmm?” 

“In future, if you are trying to seduce me, please make it clearer. We could have been doing this years ago.”

“Ah, my dear, we could. But we have the rest of eternity to get better at it. And I thought you were supposed to be the one who tempted and seduced?”

A snort, and he felt a slightly scaly foot rub against his calf. “Turns out I picked the hardest target of all. Give me a break.”

Hardest target indeed. No, just one who made sauntering look like a brisk jog in the park. His wings wrapped around them, and he indulgently tugged his beloved in to fit his outy-parts into all his own inny-parts, so they were as close as two breathing creatures could be. 

“I promise I will be much more transparent in future. But only if you promise to – to try to be as honest with me as you were tonight.” It’s a tall order, he knew. It had been excruciatingly painful, if enormously worth the effort. 

Crowley paused. “Or... we could just shag.”

True. They had rather confessed their undying love for one another, and played chicken with the Lord Herself in order to get carnal. There likely wasn’t much else they could – at this moment – admit. 

“Only if you stop referring to it in such crass terms,” he snorted, feeling like it was important they didn’t give up on their previous standards.

“Whatever you say, angel.” 

The kiss to his neck made him shiver to his toes, and Aziraphale knew that Crowley would use the word on purpose to misbehave. He would, inevitably, posture that he was cross.

And then they’d do it anyway. And that seemed like the best Arrangement, ever.


	2. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops. Look. When muses start talking, you have to listen. :) 
> 
> There may be more, I do not know, only time will tell.

Aziraphale didn’t sleep, and he had never really admitted why, even to himself. His fundamental answer was that he was too busy enjoying – wait – doing good, and he couldn’t do good when he was asleep. It wasn’t in any shape, manner or form because he’d worried about dreams. Or nightmares. Angels couldn’t _have_ those, of course.

He hadn’t slept, but he had... drifted, as his demon (his, possessive pronoun, belonging to) did. 

It was not the first time he’d watched Crowley sleep, though this time was much more pleasant. The first time, Crowley had been incredibly annoyed with him for refusing to try it, too. And then he’d aggressively slept as if to say ‘fuck you’, even if Aziraphale had spent the entire night torn between irritation that Crowley thought he could make such a demand, and a weird sentimental appreciation that the demon would feel safe enough to make himself that vulnerable in his presence. 

Future times had been a result of too much alcohol, and Crowley ‘forgetting’ to sober his body up, and insisting on curling up wherever he could, in close proximity. Those had been nicer.

This was definitely the best. If you said nothing else about their continuing Arrangement, it was most assuredly that things tended to improve over time, and not deteriorate. After their – ah – night of rather fraught emotional confrontation and _thoroughly_ enjoyable experimentation in the key of ‘yes, please, keep doing that’... Crowley had eventually allowed his body to drift into unconsciousness, perhaps partially in an attempt to avoid any further emotional nakedness for the night.

Aziraphale, of course, could have happily kept going for – oh – a few decades at least. With the occasional break for snacks. But they didn’t really need to do every single thing their first go around. After all, maybe it would get boring? For Crowley? What with his endlessly changing fashion statements and technological upgrades and all. Maybe he had to ration it out, so as not to become... gauche?

Silly, he chided himself. He’d been this way himself pretty much since day minus seven, and the serpent hadn’t yet baulked. Then there was his car... the demon had kept that Bentley for far longer than would be considered normal, if Humans lived as long as they did, and he was clearly becoming even more attached by the year. Crowley couldn’t possibly get bored of – not with how _pleasant_ and – and Grace-shattering – and –

The Principality of the Eastern Gate turned his face to the window of the same direction, drinking in the shards of sun that surged tirelessly in through the gaps at the edges of the curtains. 

He’d spent the night making the beast with two backs and four wings with his so-called enemy, and it was the most glorious thing since She said ‘Let there be Light’, and there was. 

With some care, he started to extricate his limbs from the spaghetti they’d merged into, pulling his wings back to an unseen plane of existence, seeking the ground with bare feet. He felt liberated in exactly the way Adam and Eve _hadn’t_ , when they first realised that Birthday Suits were not the only kind. He was about to rise in search of breakfast when he felt the sudden chill stealing heat from the air.

Behind him, Crowley was steadfastly pretending he was still asleep. He most assuredly was not, and the lines around his closed eyes were far too tight when Aziraphale looked back.

Regret? No. He couldn’t... he couldn’t. (He could.) Was he about to pull another fourteenth century on him, or was he going to laugh and joke that he’d seduced an angel of the Lord, convinced him that it was anything other than—

Aziraphale shook his head, chasing the doubt away. They had spent too long letting those whispering voices say ‘no’, and he was tired of it. Maybe he hadn’t eaten from the Tree of Knowledge, but he knew enough that when something felt Right or Wrong, that he should trust that.

Alright, he hadn’t always... followed what he knew was Right, but he’d known it was Wrong, and that had to count for something, didn’t it?

“It’s alright, my dear,” he murmured, leaning over to place a kiss to the nape of his neck. The demon was currently face-planted into a pillow, lying sprawled over the spot the angel had vacated, trying to act like he didn’t notice his snuggle-bunny had just tried to leave. “I’m only fetching breakfast for us both. Would you like sugar in your coffee, as a treat?”

Crowley’s ear tips turned crimson, and he half-shuddered, half-presented at the glance of lips against his skin. Nails scratched quietly at the bedding as he wriggled his ass, and hid his face deeper into the pillows.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.” 

Crowley liked to droll out that he liked his coffee like he liked his souls: black as pitch and hotter than Hell.

It wasn’t totally accurate. He was very fond of sugar, he just didn’t like people to know it. He’d magic some right into the cup, or he’d encourage his barista to trickle some syrup into the cup that had never registered through the till. 

“Fine,” came the eventual response, still muffled by the soft pillow he was attempting to commune with. 

Aziraphale smiled broadly, and ran a hand up over his spine and into his hair, knowing that the conversation was about more than just coffee. Crowley was acknowledging their – whatever it was – and not about to throw him out to the curb. The demon didn’t quite lean as deeply into the touches this morning as he had last night, but he was definitely enjoying them.

You didn’t undo six thousand years of trauma in a single night. It was going to take a while.

Once he was sure Crowley was confident that he’d return, he let himself rise and walk to the kitchen. Crowley kept less consumable things around than he did, but – ah – he’d taken to keeping more, in recent decades. Including things that were very pointedly for him. The demonic equivalent of a sock-drawer, or a toothbrush, perhaps. 

As he made them coffee and took some liberty with some pastries (as he didn’t feel like spending too long away from his new... paramour?), he reflected that there were rather a few little touches here. A book he’d actually loaned to the demon (and which, he was pleased to see, was not only being consumed but treated with some care). The mugs they’d admired one night in Soho which ‘accidentally’ ended up in the kitchen cupboard. Tiny little... okay, so ‘Humanising’ wasn’t the right word, but neither was ‘Angelicising’... tiny little touches that made this place... homely. 

Oh, stars. They’d been interior decorating together, hadn’t they? And totally not acknowledging it. Crowley had been feathering this nest for him, _with_ him, making changes for his benefit, making it more like... theirs. How had they been so incapable of admitting the fundamental truth?

“ _Aaaaangel_ ,” came the petulant wail from the bedroom. “Where the bloody Purgatory are you? Did you go for coffee, or did you go to establish Fair Trade for the impoverished masses again?”

“Ethical trading is a matter of respect, as well as basic decency,” he countered, as usual, and brought through the little tray he’d whisked across from his – his place. 

Was it still ‘his’? Would that remain, distinct? This den of semi-quity was fluffy around the edges, but sharp in the centre. Much like his bookshop was more him than Crowley. Would they... would they just visit? Would he commute, like a ‘regular’ person? Would they need a space especially for the two of them, or—

“Don’t make me miracle your ass back in here, angel.”

Chuckling, he continued his route back into the bedroom, and fluffed up some pillows so he could sit up with his croissant and coffee.

“I’m sorry, dear, I was just daydreaming. Did you have pleasant dreams?”

He knew he had, because he’d watched nearly every flicker of emotion that crossed his face, but something told him that admitting that might be considered a little... much. (Something also told him that Crowley might like ‘much’. He liked grandiose and flash and melodrama. He liked _Aziraphale_. But maybe he’d wait until another morning after to reveal his not-sleeping alternative.)

“...y-yeah.” Flighty, shuffling limbs. A voice that was slightly not-there.

Crowley was going to try to – what was the term? Phantom? Spirit? Ghost? Ghost, yes. Ghost him. Even in his own bed. Aziraphale forced his lips to remain cheery, even as it pulled at his mood.

“I guess you’ve got things to do. No reports, but... inventory, right? Or...?”

A way out. A polite opening of the door. An escape plan, created just for him. Created so he could deny he’d confessed his immortal love for the demon, slope back to his old ways, and let them both down gently.

“No, I don’t think I do.”

“Really?” More scratching of the back of his neck, the sheets sitting very discreetly over his lap, even as Aziraphale perched naked above them. “No... book-y stuff you’re... you know. Or... general do-gooding?”

“We saved the world. I think I’m allowed a brief stay-cation.”

“See, that’s the—“

Aziraphale lifted a finger, and placed it over Crowley’s lips, delicately stopping the protest. “If you would like me to leave, you will need to ask me to do so. And if it’s truly what you want, I will... respect it. Even if I would really rather not.”

Blink. Incredulous blink.

He hadn’t lifted his finger, and he hadn’t been bitten, so he decided to push the advantage. “I was not... mistaken, last night. In fact, I think the scales had truly been lifted from my eyes – no pun intended – for the first time in millennia. I made my decision. And as uncomfortable as it may be at times, I truly want to put the effort in to make this a rewarding and mutually beneficial Arrangement for us both. I appreciate you have valid concerns about it, and you can tell me now, or when you’re ready to. But I want – I want _this_. And I want **you** , and I’m going to do everything I can to make sure we’re both as happy as we possibly can be. Understood?”

Blink. Snakier blink. Tiny, tiny nod. 

“Do you want me to leave?”

The brief panicked expression told him the answer way before any conscious response, and it hurt all over again. So self-defeating and terrified that he was trying to push Aziraphale away, despite pining so hard it oozed from his pores. 

“Then I won’t. I – I know it will be difficult for you to accept. And I know you’re going to try to push me away, either for my own good, or because you’re sabotaging yourself. So I need... I need... I need you to come up with some way to tell me if you truly want me to leave.”

“Mff mfffmrrf?”

Aziraphale lifted his finger, sheepishly.

“A safeword, angel? A safeword for ending our relationship?”

“Ah, I suppose?”

“Kinky,” his demon rasped, his head tilted, snake-like, in consideration. “My old name.”

“And you’ll promise me... you’ll promise me you’ll tell me, if you ever truly...?”

“I won’t. I mean, I won’t... ever truly.” He turned and grabbed the croissant, stuffing it in his mouth to hide the embarrassment. 

“Alright. But if you do, I need you to tell me. I’m – I’m not exactly... experienced in such matters, beyond the plays and moving pictures and books and such.”

“If you start reciting bloody Bill at me, I swear to Marlowe I’ll kill you.”

Aziraphale beamed. “Well, then.” He lifted his coffee and breathed in the rich scent. His toes wriggled in appreciation, and he bent down to kiss the top of his demon’s head. “Then I shan’t let your ‘demons’ get in our way.”

“Just because we’re sleeping together, it does not give you the right to make bad puns.”

It absolutely did. 

***

Much as Aziraphale wanted to spend every minute of the day doing vaguely obscene things with his demon, he figured it was important to let him know that he was valued for more than just physical release and body heat. 

After all, they’d spent a rather long time perfecting the art of spending time together, and he definitely didn’t want to stop that. 

But now he could lean into it, in earnest. 

The Classic Cars event was not as enjoyable a bonding experience as he had initially hoped, because Crowley spent the entire time convinced someone was going to set fire to his beloved Bentley, and criticising every other vehicle in the slightly muddy field they all assembled in. It was only after Aziraphale added some angelic camouflage to distract everyone from the car that Crowley had finally relaxed enough to perch on the terrible wooden picnic table and indulge in people-watching with him, instead. 

He’d really thought that the demon would like others to admire his car, but it turned out he wasn’t trying to show off with it, after all, and it was more like some precious - _oh_ \- first edition folio. He wanted it for himself, and not as some status symbol. 

It did make the ride back to Crowley’s flat rather more meaningful, as he expected there hadn’t been all that many other passengers to use the shotgun seatbelt over the years. 

The Ritz was more their style, and the duck pond (initially just a convenient ‘secret’ meeting place, now something rather more lovely) were both good. Crowley totally vetoed the musical concert, insisting that he wouldn’t be able to take anything seriously with Aziraphale there, but he had agreed to visit some historical exhibitions so they could laugh at all the inaccuracies together. 

It was – it was... nice. It was like all the best bits of things they’d done, without nearly as much fear or uncertainty. It wasn’t completely ‘normal’, but if he closed his eyes for a moment, he could almost imagine they were a ‘regular’ couple. 

Which was why, as he faux-complained about the ‘App-steraunt’ order, and how it was ruining the dining experience (‘You said the same thing about refrigerators and out of season fruits, angel.’) Why, as they waited for the doorbell to chime, he plucked up the courage to ask. 

“Do you – do you... think maybe we... we might like to... find somewhere?”

“What, another Lebanese place?”

“No. I meant... somewhere _together_.”

Crowley’s tongue flickered out. “Is there something wrong with... this?”

“Uhm... well, I might add a little more... decor, which you would hate, but it was... I didn’t want to... presume you—“

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. If you want to. Either. We can go to the twelfth circle of Hell...” Ikea, on a weekend, “...or we... could find somewhere, if you... didn’t feel this was... right.”

Oh. Perhaps he’d been insensitive, suggesting Crowley move out. “I didn’t mean to – I didn’t mean to impose upon your hospitality—“

“But you’d ask me to get a place with you?” Amusement, and sharp teeth.

“I would like whichever you would. If you... would not feel I was imposing, then I would gladly—“

“Shack up with me?”

“Yes. That.”

Crowley looked around. “Well. I have been thinking this is a bit last-season. Couldn’t hurt to spruce the old joint up. I mean, if you don’t think it’s too... you know. Hellish.”

Oh thank Heaven. Aziraphale hated the thought of finding something that said both ‘classic’ and whatever it was that Crowley liked. He’d been concerned about their first real marital spat being about carpeting or ceiling roses and dado rails. 

But a few bookcases, maybe some throw pillows, a few pictures and a rug or two...

“Hey. You don’t get to do it _all_ ,” Crowley warned him. 

“Oh, no, of course not.”

Three rugs. And some matching bathtowels. They would do ‘His’ and ‘His’, if they didn’t do ‘Angel’ and ‘Demon’. 

“I’m going to regret this,” Crowley complained, and then got to his feet to accept their takeout order. 

“Don’t be such a Demon-Downer,” Aziraphale cooed after him, continuing his redecoration plan as if he hadn’t been deciding what he wanted for the last few months. 

***

Ikea was Hell. For Crowley, at least. Aziraphale had laid out several catalogues all over the kitchen table and was flicking through them with a pencil behind one ear, and another in his hand, because he’d forgotten where he’d put the first. 

Crowley was getting increasingly drunk, and flicking through websites on his over-priced and under-performing tablet as he tried to ignore Aziraphale’s Olde Worlde methods.

The angel pushed another glossy image under his nose. “What about this one?”

“Sure.”

“You said that about the last coffee table.”

“It’s a bloody table, ‘Zira. What could possibly be more interesting than the last nine million ones you’ve shown me?”

“Well, if that’s your attitude, you may come home to find you hate our marital home.”

“Our... what?”

“You heard me.”

“I did. And I wish I didn’t.”

Aziraphale huffed. “I’m an angel. I do things properly.”

“Even if we had legal documentation, you do realise the way we look would prevent pretty much every church in this country from doing what you’re saying, not to mention I’d be dancing like I needed to piss out the Danube, and terrified someone might accidentally reduce me to atomic nothingness?”

He did so wish the church would get with the picture already. “It doesn’t... it doesn’t need to be there. Though obviously it would be – God is everywhere, and my commitment to you doesn’t require any legal documentation whatsoever.”

A snicker, and Crowley’s chair went back onto two legs. “So we’re living in sin.”

“Hardly. I’m an angel. I’m not capable of such things. We are promised to one another, and She knows it, and that means it’s real.”

“Still, if one of us got knocked up, the child would be born of wedlock.”

“So was Jesus.”

That got him a wobble as Crowley nearly fell off his chair. 

“ _And_ semi-adultery.”

“I am not giving birth to the Second Coming. Look what happened when I delivered the Antichrist.” Crowley whuffed in resignation. “Fine. Common-law married. Anything else you want to spring on me? Did you sign me up to bake for the local Oxfam appeal, or am I going to give rescued puppies to orphaned children and knit them all cardigans from my own chest-hair?”

“Your chest-hair wouldn’t cover a hamster, but no, dear. We co-parented two children and I think that’s enough for now. If you would be an absolute darling and help me pick a theme for the final room, we can call it a night.”

“Which of them looks like it’d take the most – ah – weight and stress? With the least amount of splinters?”

That was more like it. 

***

Aziraphale thought they’d done a decent job of it, considering their track-record. He had officially moved in, except for the nights they thought it was too much effort to go back to what once had been Crowley’s place, after a night out together, or because they’d (he’d) been caught up with something in the bookshop. 

Crowley had picked more of the furnishing for the bedroom at the shop. It seemed only fair, and Aziraphale liked the idea of him leaving his mark on what had once been only ‘his’ territory. Muddling both places to meet somewhere in the middle.

The demon continued to terrorise his plants, and then Aziraphale quietly coaxed them out of apoplexy when Crowley was either out of ear-shot, or pretending to be. Aziraphale continued to spend too long with his collection, until the chair was pulled away from the table, or his monster of a boyfriend asked if holy water or hellfire would be more damaging to his prized possessions.

They still disagreed about the best flavours of icecream, but there was room in the freezer for both.

With no demand on their time to push for either sin or salvation of Humanity, and the endless expanse of eternity before them, Aziraphale found it was much nicer to just to be kind for the sake of it. His demon went around exercising minor acts of being mildly annoying, but Humans did way worse, so he could live with that. And he only really did it if someone pissed him off too much, or he had an idea he ‘couldn’t’ resist enacting.

Rome didn’t turn Catholic overnight.

What really made it worthwhile, though, was coming home one day to find Crowley wiping at his cheeks under his sunglasses, holding a small piece of card. He tilted his head in curiosity, and paced closer to see what it was.

“...look.”

On the front of the small rectangle was a generic print of a delightful place called Bognor Regis. It was more delightful than perhaps the place itself, but that was personal preference, he decided. Aziraphale took the card and turned it over, shocked and pleased in equal measure to see the slightly-wobbly writing of a child’s hand in rising and falling height as he tried to squeeze all his thoughts into the small space.

_Mum thinks I’m writing this to Pepper but I’ll tell Pepper when I get home because I’ve got an ace new game we’re going to play. This is Adam. It was my twelfth birthday last week. I got a spy game and we went bowling. It’s Dog’s birthday, too, and he got a new collar. He’s going to be like a spy dolphin, except on land._

_I wanted to say thank you because you helped me have my twelfth birthday and because I know you were trying to be nice, even if you wanted to kill me. But that happens in games and stories. Sometimes you think it’s the bad guy and it’s not._

_I don’t know when your birthdays are so I made some up for you. You can change them if you want. If you want to come to my next party, don’t do any magic._

_Adam_

“...has it really been a year?” the angel mused, surprised.

“Sounds about right.”

He was honestly touched. Adam. They’d tried so hard to save the ‘Antichrist’ from excessive influences either which way – likely rendering Warlock into a neurotic sociopath, in retrospect – but when it had mattered, they’d been there for him. 

Neither one of them had really had the heart to kill him. Even when he was Satan’s Own Son. But they hadn’t really done that good of a job of helping him, not really. It had all been down to him.

A year. A whole extra year. It had flown over, and Aziraphale was now greedily considering how he could maximise the enjoyment of every single moment to come. Not because of any known end, but just in case. He looked up at Crowley, his chest tightening. 

“We... didn’t do that badly, did we?”

“Nah. Considering our own parenting, we practically are God-Fathers of the Ever.”

Then it hit him. “Demon!”

“...yes? Had you forgotten?”

He clasped Crowley’s arm urgently. “We missed our anniversary!”

“We... well.” Brows lifted. “We did. Am I now in the hellhoundhouse for the next year?”

Aziraphale was caught between elation, horror, delight, and a dizzying need to dance his beloved around in circles and possibly find a very tall deconsecrated church to climb atop of and shout loudly up at the archangel Gabriel some rather choice words about how Amor Vincit Bloody Omnia. 

“Don’t be ludicrous. It simply means we have to celebrate extra hard both this year and next year.”

“...wait, just so we’re clear, you’re counting it as – uh—“

“Yes, then.”

“Not saving the world.”

“That’s a different anniversary.”

“...we need two?”

“Twice as much cake,” he said, and that clearly settled the matter once and for all.

***  
Despite feeling that Crowley was really just indulging his angelic need for celebrating anything and everything that he felt was rather nice, Aziraphale was enjoying himself.

He’d bought an almanac for them each. And he’d put in the birthdays that Adam had picked for them, and the Not-pocalypse, and their official Anniversary, and the day they’d officially moved in, and he’d stopped short of going back through the ages to recognise all the other Good Times he had particularly felt emotionally connected to his serpent, but it had been jolly difficult.

Crowley had – with customary show of reluctance – pocketed the small book and called him a sentimental old fool. 

But Aziraphale knew better.

As promised, there was cake. Devil’s and Angel’s food cake, tiered, and made by the finest patisserie chef he could locate. It lasted not as long as it should have, and that was perfectly fine with him. 

They’d never really exchanged gifts before, not unless you counted the miracles and... uhm... slightly-less kind things they’d helped one another accomplish over the years. As much as both of them were hoarders in their own, peculiar way, they’d never actually given things.

So now he was faced with the trepidation of would Crowley find anything he could find... nice? Or would he mock, or would it fall flat, or...

History be damned. Aziraphale was determined to try it at least once. After all, giving was better than receiving, or something. 

When he came home with his gift, he was surprised to see... well. The lights were off. Instead, the place was lit by low, warm candles. White candles. Which must have given Crowley no end of conniptions to procure and light, given the connotations attached. 

He felt shaky as he walked through to the living room, where his demon was dressed in the smartest, sharpest of black tie. (White, would of course, have been tasteless on him.) Feeling significantly under-dressed, he flustered with the little gift bag he’d brought home, murmuring his dismay and delight in equal measure.

“Angel,” Crowley interrupted him, mid-waffle.

“But you’ve gone to so much effort! I – why didn’t you tell me to smarten up?”

A snap of his fingers, and the day to day outfit was gone, replaced by a soft, dove-white version of Crowley’s own outfit. The fabrics were impeccable, the cut exquisite, and the sheen and glide the most elegant thing he could remember wearing in a very, very long time. One hand came up to his mouth in an effort to hide his utter rapture, but he knew Crowley could read it all over his face anyway.

“It’s nothing, really. I just didn’t fancy sharing you with everyone else, tonight.”

“Oh, _stop_.” Except: don’t. Ever.

Crowley held his arm out delicately, ducking his head in the minutest form of respect, before guiding him to the dinner table. Where he’d laid out a too-nice tablecloth (likely liberated from one dining place Aziraphale knew too well), adorned with tall, flickering candlesticks and set for two. He pulled the chair out to seat him, and Aziraphale was pretty sure everyone in a five-mile radius would wake up tomorrow wondering why they’d had an urge to spend all night with their loved ones, much more intensely than usual. 

“You _charmer_.”

“My job, remember? Seduce, so on. Consider it a refresher course for me.”

If it helped him sell the lie to that little voice inside, Aziraphale could accept it. He then realised he was still holding onto the gift bag, which now seemed silly. But he lifted it up anyway, and held it out. 

“I wasn’t sure if we were allowed to... if you would... think me foolish, so I’m afraid it’s—“

“...perfect,” Crowley reassured him, lifting out the small plant.

“The instructions are inside. Please, do be kinder to this one. It... would mean a lot to me.”

“I can tell all the others they have to meet up to its standards.” He turned the pot around, examining it. “White egret orchid, huh? Looks more like a dove to me. Or... an angel.”

It was rather the point, Aziraphale thought, as he blushed at the response. The white, wing-like flowers had spoken to him of both peace and freedom, and of a history they shared that went back beyond before history really existed. And judging by the way Crowley’s fingers traced the blooms, he was thinking the same thing.

“Orchids are rather racy, you know. You did just give me the botanical equivalent of a ‘come hither’.”

“Did I?” Yes, he did. “Well, Heavens defend us both.”

“Kind of makes me think I was a bit too subtle.”

“...and why would you think that?”

Crowley reached into his pocket, and pulled out a little wrapped package. “Well. I didn’t buy a gallon of lube on Amazon. I thought...”

Aziraphale tried not to look too greedy as he pulled open the soft paper to see what his own first, real love token was. When he laid eyes on it, he _did_ squeak. But only briefly.

It was a warm, gold pocket-watch, the kind that Crowley had always loved. But as he lifted it up, he saw that the cover was engraved with an apple across the centre, circled by a serpent, clasping a feather in its jaws. His fingers traced the design, amused by the depiction of them, amused by the memory and the implication of his own temptation. 

“Well, open it, you daft bugger.”

His thumb pressed the clasp, and inside was written a date. Well. Three. A zero, for the beginning. The day the world didn’t end. And an infinity, below that. Across, under glass, hands ticking away all the moments between. All the moments they now had, and would always have. It was a promise more binding than any ring could be – for them – and he felt that furious wave of Love all over again.

This was when he realised Crowley was trying to hide his own nerves about the gift, and decided the best thing to do would be to slide all the intervening nonsense away and off the table (candles most assuredly extinguished) and smash his mouth into his demon’s. It was usually an easier way to communicate how deep he was feeling, than embarrass them both with a string of self-conscious and stammering words. 

There were hands on his shoulders, and then he’d moved from crawling across the table to squashing his demon into the dining chair, kissing his face and ignoring the faint protests and swats he got in return. He didn’t care how ludicrous he looked, he was ecstatic and Crowley needed to know it.

“Hey, hey, you big oaf, watch out, you’re going to burn the flat down!”

“You’ll save me,” Aziraphale breezed the complaint away, attempting to land as many kisses on his nose as they’d had days together since Creation.

“Right. But maybe you could—“

Move them? Away from the obviously delicious meal Crowley had planned, and prepared for? Right into the bedroom, where he could continue to kiss him without fear of a fork interrupting a thigh? Of course he could.

“You are _insatiable_.”

“You knew that when you fell in love with me.” Aziraphale was more than sure of that. He’d been the most... voracious of angels since day one. Hungry for more than just food, but for anything that made him feel good. Crowley made him feel good. Kissing Crowley made him feel good.

And Crowley was beaming and squirming under the exuberant affection, which made him want to do it more. He could more easily lend himself to the more lewd forms of intimacy, hiding behind the veneer of carnal sin, but what Aziraphale was doing was the exact opposite. 

His hands graced over his angles, trickling the faintest amount of Light as he went. Enough to sting, and to tease. He kissed and pressed tiny words of praise and delight into his cheekbones, and plucked at the wonderful outfit, demanding it surrender the real gift wrapped up inside. 

“Angel...”

“Hush, dear.”

“I—“

“ _I know_.” He hadn’t meant to echo a movie about people fighting in space, but ever since he had, and Crowley had finished explaining when his amusement allowed, he’d taken to doing it deliberately. It meant Crowley could say things without having to force them past his lips, and it meant they both knew precisely what they weren’t-saying. 

Which worked out just right.

“Let me,” Aziraphale asked, as he finally performed enough contortionism to get them both naked. 

Crowley nodded, a nod that said ‘anything’ and ‘yes’ and ‘please’ and ‘forever’. It was getting easier for him to accept these times, these times when Aziraphale wanted to make him accept so much affection that it made him fluster. 

It was heartbreaking to know he found it so hard. That his own guilt and fear made the simple act of surrendering to being wanted, loved, worshipped... made it so challenging that he had to fight the urge to run. 

It didn’t really matter what went where. They both were hedonists, at heart, and they didn’t have the same social hang-ups as Humans born into bodies and their social roles. It wasn’t the bits that caused the friction (emotionally speaking), it was... the intent. 

“Let me make love to you,” Aziraphale whispered in his ear, a temptation of a wholly different kind. An offering of himself, and a need to give-and-take in a completely deeper sense.

A nod so small that no Human eye would ever recognise it, and the angel reminded his body how to do this the easy way. Sometimes they didn’t cheat. Sometimes they did it the ‘proper’ way, but there was no point in being an incredibly powerful, immortal being if you didn’t occasionally make use of it.

Aziraphale lowered himself down onto his demon’s lap, letting the first inch of his lover slide into his readied body. It was glorious, hot, and full inside of him. Full, and... him. He could have put any number of things inside his body (and, with Crowley present, occasionally had), but there was nothing quite like knowing it was him. Him. It could always have only ever been him. 

Down, until his thighs quivered at the stretch of it, the way he could feel it all the way inside. His arms draped over Crowley’s shoulders, his fingers trailing into wings, his eyes boring right through the other’s, all the way inside.

“D-don’t tease me. Not today.” 

“How could I resist you a thing you asked of me?”

“I don’t know. But sometimes it takes you a while to agree.”

That was true, and he smiled ruefully as he began to lift and lower himself on his lap. Building heat, and eyes that tracked his face as much as his own tracked Crowley’s. Watching the corner of a mouth, the twitch beside an eye, the race of colour staining cheeks, the being deep beneath the surface.

“You are beautiful. And wicked. And cruel. And perfect. And all I could ever want.”

“...don’t...”

“You are what I was made for, Crowley. Beyond all the stars. She made you for me, one beautiful, broken thing to Love. To drive me crazy. To teach me forgiveness. To show me something worth fighting for.”

“Angel, I can’t—“

“You can’t stop me loving you. You _can’t_. You make an angel of the Lord want to rip the skies apart for you. You make me want to forget everything I ever knew, because it’s nothing compared to you.”

“ _Please, please – I **can’t**_...”

The rise and fall of his body in the demon’s arms was simply a way to express the depth of his emotion. It wasn’t required, but it was certainly very enjoyable. As he rode his lap like they could never possibly be two distinct entities for more than a day, he blazed out every imperfect swell of affection. He wanted him to know. He _needed_ him to know. He needed him to know how he was happy to Fall if it meant him, but that he didn’t need to.

He didn’t need to Fall, because loving him wasn’t wrong at all. And he did. He Loved him. The kind of Love Crowley had railed in anger over losing, but he hadn’t lost at all. He was Loved, and always would be, and he would never be alone again.

It made his demon cry out first, as it usually did when he let Aziraphale storm his Bastille. When he allowed himself to accept the outpouring of emotion and desire, mingled together. Crowley grabbed at his wings and pulled Aziraphale harshly against him, so he could ride out the wave of bliss and give back some of the feeling to his lover. 

Knowing he was there – at least for now, until the doubt and fear slunk back in to muddy his mind – made the joining all the sweeter. He threw his head back and slammed his hips down to chase every last spark of pleasure his body was capable of holding onto. 

It could have been hours, or it could have been minutes, but whatever it was, Aziraphale was happy to ride out the aftershocks both inside and out. A hand was easing over his shaft, and his demon was softening slowly inside of him, bathing him from the inside-out with the proof of their happiness. He clenched tighter around him, wanting to make sure he didn’t run away any time soon. It caused a sibilant tssssk, and more touches to his wings, little pecks of devotion that sparkled like those stars Crowley loved so much. 

“You wasted a perfectly good supper,” Crowley chuckled, as their rocking slowed to almost nothing.

“Perhaps. But I have everything I need, right here.”

“Soft twat.”

“Ridiculous buffoon.”

He wondered what time the pocket-watch was saying, but he decided it didn’t matter. He was going to stay right here until his legs gave way, and then demand he was carried to the bath. This one was big enough for them both.

It had two ducks, of course, but only one had horns. 

And to think, they got to do this all again, next year. He hoped Adam didn’t suspect what he’d started with that postcard, as there were some things that not only was the boy not old enough for, but which were... a private affair. But he really did need to write a thank-you note. Tomorrow. He’d do it tomorrow. Until then, he had a demon to love.

**Author's Note:**

> I look straight in the window, try not to look below  
> Pretend I'm not up here, I try counting sheep  
> The sheep seem to shower off this office tower  
> It's Nine-point-eight straight down I can't stop my knees
> 
> ....
> 
> I wish I could fly  
> From this building  
> From this wall  
> And if I should try  
> Would you catch me if I fall?  
> When I fall  
> When I fall  
> When I fall  
> When I
> 
> (Barenaked Ladies, When I Fall)


End file.
